George changed.
Carla doesn't know when it happened, how or even where, but he has. He's not the same man she fell in love with five years ago.
Lando's the one who noticed first, the thought whispered to her when George had plucked the wine out of...
Title from: Water Fall Out of Love by Victoria Monet (is anyone else obsessed with jaguar 2?! Alright might be my new fave song)
Lando
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Max has been slow to forgive me, and even then forgiveness is a loose definition of what's happened. Over the last few days with me staying in the London apartment he stays in we've exchanged quiet conversation. At first Max's replies were limited to quiet one word answers but slowly, as the week progressed we've fell into sentences until conversation flowed freely. There's still some tension, Max doesn't like the whole Carla situation, a fact he's quick to point out at me if she comes up in conversation - I can't say I'm a fan either. He laughed when I pointed that out.
So when a knock of the door echoes through the apartment I assume it's Max returning with the Chinese food we ordered half an hour ago that he went to collect not long after.
Only it isn't.
"Hey?" the stunned greeting falls of me in a question at the sight infront of me. George. He looks disheveled and confused and...I don't get to look at him for long because he's skirting around me and on his way inside before I can stop him or question him further. "Uh-welcome." I quip dryly, he's been here three times, certainly not enough to be confident to push his way inside like this. "I guess." I continue with a grumble, a roll of my eyes with the words. This is just like him. To be so entitled and brazen to just push his way inside my home like this.
Only it's not.
This is nothing like George really. Despite the confidence of his movements there's an uncertainty to them, he pauses between disorientated steps and when we land in the kitchen and he turns to face me there's a cloud of bewilderment on his face. "I'm sorry, I just-I was here and I realised I didn't want to go to the flat and..." he trails off his ramble by raising the bottle which has been gripped tight in his hands the whole time. I was just too jaunted by his presence here to realise it. "I brought this, you know I don't turn up empty handed I brought you-me..." George stammers over his words finding the right ones. It's whisky in his hands, I think. He hates the stuff, I do too. He knows that.
"What's going on?" The question leaves me slowly as I assess the view of George. He's disorientated, as if someone's blindfolded him and left him at my door after spinning him around a hundred times. His light brown hair is splayed around messily and not kept in it's usually styled position. His movements are slow as he begins pawing at cupboards, opening each one in the kitchen area, peeking inside before closing it until his eyes settle what he's searching for. Two short glasses are snatched and tossed almost carelessly down on the kitchen bench. I cringe at the clattering noise they make, somehow the material holds up. When his hands connects roughly with the bench top with thick slap of frustration a hot nausea rattles through me. He's touching the same counter that Carla called my name whilst on top of.
